The story that the enchanter revealed took Cullen aback. It was not that he harbored doubts about the potential for abuse and mistreatment within the Chantry; no organization, no matter how noble its cause, could escape the insidious tendrils of corruption. What truly surprised him was the fervor with which Miriam fought for justice on behalf of retired Templars, even at the expense of her well-being.
A desire to protect, to right the wrongs inflicted upon the innocent, resonated deep within his heart. It was a sentiment he had always carried, the only constant in his life. And now, in this unexpected revelation, he found himself discovering a kinship with the mage, a connection he had not anticipated.
As her tale reached its conclusion, she stood rigid, her fingers clutching tightly around the worn and tarnished amulet that rested against her chest. Her eyes darted anxiously from one face to another. It was as if she sought to unravel their thoughts, to measure the impact of her words upon their hearts.
The Left Hand was the first to break the silence, her face revealing nothing of her feelings. "It doesn't matter what the truth may be," she began, her voice measured and detached. "What counts is that your version of events serves the interests of the Inquisition and boosts its reputation. That is the approach we will take, regardless of the facts."
It was moments like this that made it difficult for Cullen to believe that the ruthless, pragmatic woman before him was the same gentle and compassionate soul that had saved him at Kinloch Hold. Then again, he wasn't the same man that she met either.
Josephine, ever the diplomat, interjected with a touch of concern furrowing her otherwise composed features. "Without wishing to offend Lady Miriam, I find it challenging to imagine that the esteemed Mother could have been engaged in such grave transgressions. Nevertheless, irrespective of my viewpoint, given our delicate position with the Chantry, an overt confrontation would not be prudent. We must exercise finesse and focus on those clerics in Ostwick who are already swayed to our cause. Their voices, if amplified, will outweigh the influence of Mother Lucia."
The mage's voice trembled with agitation as she pleaded her case, "While it may bring an end to her deceitful fabrications, what of the retired Knights under her care? It is highly unlikely that she has changed her cruel ways. For justice to be served she must receive retribution for her deeds and, of course, be stripped of her position."
He agreed with the notion that the Mother should be held accountable for her actions. However, he also possessed the wisdom to recognize that right now was not the best time to do so.
The Spymaster, her words deliberate, shared her insight. "The Mother's audacity carries purpose. Trust my instincts when I say that if we delve deeper, we shall uncover secrets we can exploit to our advantage."
"And meanwhile I propose we dispatch a contingent of Inquisition soldiers to Ostwick. Their presence, under the guise of protection, will serve as a reminder to her that she is not beyond our reach." He added to the discussion.
"No," Leliana interjected, her demeanor resembling that of a predator patiently stalking its prey. "This will only heighten her vigilance. We must maintain a veil of obscurity, allowing her to remain blissfully unaware of our true intentions. Let her revel in her perceived sense of security and authority, while we diligently orchestrate her downfall."
Cassandra, her voice resolute, entered the discussion with a decisive tone. "So be it," she declared. "For the time being, we shall refrain from issuing an official response to her claims. Instead, our focus shall shift towards cultivating relationships with other influential clerics in Ostwick. Josephine, if I remember correctly, Revered Mother Petra has an affinity for generous donations. Let us ensure that our version of events reaches her ear, along with the offerings intended as goodwill gestures from the Inquisition. At the same time, our Spymaster will try to uncover any compromising information on Mother Lucia. With any luck, her hour of reckoning will come quickly".
The Seeker then turned her attention to Miriam, a hint of sympathy etched upon her features. "I understand that this outcome may not align precisely with your expectations. But regretfully, this is the extent of our capabilities for now."
The enchanter shook her head. "I am immensely grateful for your support," she responded earnestly. "I have been trying to bring this woman to justice for years. I can wait a little longer to do so. What truly matters is that you stand beside me, even if your faith in my cause remains partially uncertain," she acknowledged, glancing towards the Ambassador and the Left Hand. "That, in itself, is a tremendous boon."
As the meeting wore on, an uneasiness settled over Cullen, its grip tightening with each passing moment. He tried to dismiss the feeling, chalking it up to the weariness from sleepless nights and the increasing weight of his obligations. Yet, as Leliana divulged the fruits of interrogations from the imprisoned bandits at the Crossroads, that disquiet swelled, morphing into a wild pounding within his chest. A rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins was driving his heart into a relentless gallop that overpowered the cadence of the Spymaster's words. Perplexed, he questioned the reasons behind this. For there seemed to be no logical explanation for such turmoil. And then, as if summoned from the depths of his worst nightmares, a chilling apparition materialized before his eyes. Thomas, his long-dead friend, stood in the corner of the room, frozen in time as he had been the day he fell - a visage of searing wounds and dented armor. The weight of his gaze bore down upon the Commander, brimming with unspoken condemnation. No words escaped his brother-in-law's lips, only the silent accusation that pierced Cullen's soul.
At this sight, a torrent of dizziness engulfed him, thrusting the room into a disorienting spin. With a trembling grasp, he clung to the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as he fought to anchor himself. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his hands trembled involuntarily. Every breath he took felt constricted as if the air itself had been transformed into a thick miasma of sulfurous smoke that was choking his lungs. Battling to preserve his outward composure, Cullen waged a silent war against the mounting torrent of panic that surged within him. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately seeking refuge from the haunting vision that threatened to engulf his sanity. He begged the Maker for mercy, his silent prayer an impassioned plea for the apparition to fade away.
As he cautiously opened his eyes, a wave of relief washed over him. The ghostly presence had vanished, leaving behind only the lingering traces of unease that clung to his senses. His momentary respite was short-lived, however, as he became acutely aware of the gazes fixed upon him. The room had fallen into a hushed silence, and the weight of the council's collective scrutiny bore down upon him. Each pair of eyes held questions, concern, and perhaps even doubt. Cullen's heart sank, realizing that his struggle had not gone unnoticed.
"Sorry, I... I just need a moment," he mumbled, his voice barely audible as he stumbled over his words. Without waiting for a response, he hurriedly made his way to the door, leaving behind a War Room filled with puzzled expressions and unanswered questions.
Venturing down the hallway, he found his way out of the Chantry, drawn towards the solace of crisp, fresh air that enveloped him like a comforting embrace. Once outside, the intensity of his emotions gradually subsided, giving way to an overwhelming fatigue that settled deep within his bones. He stumbled along the path to his tent, yearning for seclusion and respite from prying eyes.
Once inside, he collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his trembling hands. In his mind, the events of the meeting played on an endless loop as he tried to process the fact that the lyrium withdrawal was beginning to take its toll on his sanity. Desperation surged through him, and in a frantic attempt to find catharsis, he grabbed his hair and tore at it until the physical pain matched his inner anguish.
How feeble he felt, how pathetically inadequate. With his powers gone and his mind playing cruel tricks on him, what purpose did he serve in the Inquisition? What could he hope to achieve? He was so tired, tired of the pain that gnawed at his core, of the relentless nightmares that now plagued even his waking hours, of the paralyzing fear of confined spaces and unwanted touches - how much longer could he take it?
A single thought wormed its way through his tortured mind, whispering temptation with a venomous allure. Just one vial, it suggested, and the burdens would lighten, the path ahead would smooth. The philter within his trunk beckoned to him, its remaining traces of lyrium promising temporary respite from the torment. His body jerked upright from the chair, propelled by that impulsive yearning, ready to succumb to the allure of the vial. Yet, before he could reach out and grasp the trunk's handle, a resounding voice shattered the silence. The Right Hand requested permission to enter. Cullen froze, his hand suspended in mid-air, the weight of his choices hanging heavily upon him. The sudden interruption pierced through his desperate resolve, offering a moment of hesitation.
"Come in," the Commander called out, as he lowered his hand, the appeal of the philter momentarily overshadowed by the arrival of the Seeker. The trunk remained closed, its contents obscured, as he turned his attention towards the entrance, anticipation mingling with trepidation.
The woman entered his tent with a worried expression etched upon her face. Her keen eyes scanned his form, studying him intently from head to toe, before she finally spoke. "Are you alright?" she inquired with genuine concern.
"Yes, I am fi-" he began to offer his usual dismissive response. However, the raised eyebrow and penetrating gaze of the Right Hand halted his words in their tracks. "No, not really," he admitted, his voice laced with defeat. He motioned for Cassandra to take a seat in the chair while he settled on the edge of his cot, his hands clenched tightly in his lap as he considered what else he should say.
The Seeker leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "Are the lyrium withdrawal symptoms worsening?"
"What!? How did you..." Cullen's bewildered reply escaped his lips.
The woman let out an exasperated sigh, her frustration evident. "I am the Seeker of Truth. It is my duty to watch over the Templars. Do you really think I would not recognize the symptoms?"
A mix of emotions swirled within him—relief that he no longer had to hide his decision, regret for not confiding in her sooner, and a touch of embarrassment at his naivety. He had spent countless hours contemplating how to broach the subject with Cassandra, though in retrospect it seemed glaringly obvious that she would discern the truth. "Then why didn't you say anything?"
"I was being considerate," she pointed out. "You recoiled at every probing question I posed about your struggles and so I refrained. As long as it did not hinder the Inquisition, it was not my place to interfere. But at this point, you must admit that I can no longer turn a blind eye."
The man lowered his eyes and fixed his gaze on his hands, which were still trembling. Where does one begin such a confession? In his decision lay the weight of a lifetime, a story that he had shared only with the Maker. He was hesitant to reveal too much, to lay bare the depths of his inner turmoil, but the Seeker deserved an explanation. "For decades, I dedicated myself to the Templar Order, giving it everything I had. But now... now I yearn for a new beginning, to break free from the chains that still bind me. It may seem ill-advised, especially considering the timing." He paused for a moment, his gaze meeting Cassandra's steady eyes, searching for understanding. "But I need to put some distance between my past and my present. While I am within the confines of lyrium's grasp, I don't think I can do that. I ask that you watch over me, and if my ability to lead is compromised any further, release me from my duty."
The woman listened intently, and when he finished she nodded slowly. "Your decision to stop taking lyrium is not one I take lightly, but I believe in your strength and resilience," she said, her voice steady and reassuring. "Your success in finding a new way forward could inspire others who no longer wish to be bound by the constraints of the Order. Your journey is not just your own, it carries the potential to ignite hope in those Knights who feel trapped."
"Thank you, Cassandra," he whispered, his voice tinged with emotion. "Your understanding means more to me than you can imagine."
"We are a team, Cullen, I hope you know that," the Right Hand spoke, her voice laced with a gentle yet determined tone. "When I say 'we,' I do not refer solely to you and me, but to the entirety of the Inquisition council. Many stand against us, and if we do not support one another in times of trouble, our cause is destined to fail." Her words carried a spark of enthusiasm, as she continued to lay out her proposal. "I am certain that you are not the first one to try and break the lyrium chains. While openly seeking information on this matter would strain our relationship with the Chantry, Leliana possesses the skills to retrieve records discreetly, ensuring our anonymity. And as a healer, Miriam could offer remedies to alleviate some of the withdrawal symptoms. She was beside herself with worry when you left, and it would bring her peace of mind to know that she can be of assistance to you."
He shook his head, "I wouldn't wish to burden others with my struggles," he replied, his voice filled with a touch of self-deprecation.
Cassandra's expression softened. "Don't be stubborn. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. Even Andraste didn't accomplish her feats alone."
Cullen, feeling the weight of the Seeker's unwavering support, found his resolve wavering. Perhaps it was time to relinquish his pride and accept the aid offered by his comrades. With a sigh, he relented, "Very well. For the sake of the Inquisition and our shared mission, I will set aside my reservations and allow others to lend their strength to my own."
The woman's smile widened, "That is the spirit. Now get some rest, Josephine will send the report on our meeting to you later today." With those words, she rose from the chair "I will return to my duties as there is much work to be done."
As she left his tent, he leaned back against his cot, his tired body sinking into the fabric, and a sense of relief enveloped him. He had companions by his side, comrades in arms who were ready to support him. The temptation to reach for the lyrium that had held such power over him only moments before was now reduced to an almost imperceptible whisper. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was not alone in his struggles.
As promised, the report from the Ambassador arrived a few hours later, bearing information that shed light on the recent events. Interrogation by Leliana's agents revealed that the so-called bandits who attacked Miriam and Mother Giselle were henchmen of the infamous Carta. Their purpose was to deter humans from traveling further down the King's Highway where the dwarves had stumbled upon a rare find - a vein of lyrium in an underground cavern unusually close to the surface. Hawke and Fenris, acting swiftly, had dealt with the remaining hirelings in the vicinity preparing the ground for claiming the precious site. However, their efforts were abruptly halted by a Rift within the tunnel leading to the deposit. Hence, the expertise of the Herald was necessary to seal the tear in the Veil. It was decided that tomorrow after the morning bells, Cassandra, Lysette, and Solas were to accompany her to the Hinterlands to help secure the location.
The implications of this discovery were profound. Once the site was cleared and a working mine established, it would serve as a permanent source of lyrium for the Inquisition's mages and Templars for years to come. The prospect of stability and self-sufficiency was a beacon of hope amidst the challenges they faced.
Cullen set the report aside and made his way to the training field. The tendrils of good news had seeped into him, infusing his weary spirit with a renewed sense of enthusiasm to face the rest of the day.
He dedicated himself to the task of training the recruits, tirelessly guiding them through drills and imparting his knowledge. He observed their progress with a discerning eye, taking pride in their growth as they honed their skills under his tutelage. The training grounds buzzed with activity as soldiers pushed their limits, sweat glistening on their brows, while his voice resonated with firm instructions.
When dusk enveloped the land, the Commander wearily retreated to his tent for the night, a mix of exhaustion and fulfillment lingering in his heart.
He bolted upright from his cot, drenched in a cold sweat that clung to his trembling body. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and rapid, as his panicked eyes darted around the dimly lit shelter. Slowly, a sense of relief washed over him as he realized it was all but a haunting nightmare.
Yet, the sickening sensation of the demon's warm, slimy fingers still clung to his skin. Overwhelmed by a sense of revulsion, he pushed himself upright and made his way towards the modest basin perched upon a weathered wooden chair in the corner. With deliberate movements, he removed his shirt, exposing his clammy flesh to the cool air. His hand extended towards the bowl, where the frigid water awaited. With a resolute grip, he seized the basin, brimming with ice-cold liquid, and splashed it against his face. The streams cascaded over his body, awakening his senses with their biting touch. In that instant, the present moment claimed his attention, erasing the lingering traces of fear and disgust that clung to him. Patting himself dry with a worn cloth, he turned his gaze towards one of the tent openings, covered with a thin layer of nug skin. The translucent covering allowed a soft diffusion of light from the outside to permeate the tent. The faint pink hue of the approaching sunrise barely caught his eye, indicating that there were still a few hours before the morning bells would stir the camp awake. Unwilling to waste time when there was a mountain of things to do, he thought to get a head start on checking the Inquisition's supply lines. With the impending shortage of weapons for the recruits, it was imperative to address the issue promptly. He donned his trusty armor, its weight a reassuring presence, and made his way to the Chantry.
As he ventured along the well-trodden path, his steps quickened, hastening him to his destination. There, amidst the swirling snowflakes, he came upon Lysette and Brother Sebastian. The woman, her countenance marked by a crimson flush from her labor, diligently toiled to clear the snow from the entrance with an old, weathered shovel.
Nearby, Sebastian, stripped of his usual armor and clad in maroon Alb, exuded an aura of elation as he fervently wielded an axe to cleave wood. This garb signified that he had been entrusted with the task of preparing logs for the ever-burning brazier placed at the feet of the Maker's Bride statue. This duty, sought after and revered, offered the clergy an opportunity to imbue the timber with their prayers, knowing that Andraste's flames would deliver them to the Maker. Such a sacred undertaking had traditionally been reserved exclusively for Mothers, rendering it an unattainable dream for any man. The fact that Mother Giselle had allowed the Brother to transgress the boundaries dictated by his gender made her a woman of peculiar nature.
With a solemn nod of acknowledgment bestowed upon Sebastian, he proceeded to Lysette. The woman, her face marked by both weariness and resolve, saluted him with reverence. Her breath formed visible puffs in the frigid air as she spoke, "Commander," she greeted, her words laced with a tinge of exhaustion. "Lady Herald has sought solace in the sanctum of the Chantry. She has expressed her desire to offer a prayer to Andraste before we embark on our mission. In the meantime, I have taken it upon myself to assist Brother Sebastian in his obligations."
He paused for a moment, taking in Lysette's worn appearance and the snow-covered surroundings. "Understood," he replied, "However, take a moment to rest. Your strength must remain steadfast for the impending journey."
With a brisk nod, the woman assented, "I shall, Commander. May Andraste guide our path."
While she retreated towards a sheltered corner, seeking respite from her tasks, Cullen entered the Chantry. As he made his way further down the hall, he couldn't help but be enticed by the melodic cadence of Miriam's prayer and the gentle crackle of the ever-burning brazier emanating from the inner sanctum. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of intruding upon her moment of communion, but something within him urged him forward. As he approached the hallowed ground, his gaze fell upon the mage kneeling before the statue of Andraste, her silhouette bathed in a soft halo of light emanating from the brazier. She prostrated herself on the cold stone floor, her delicate frame swaying ever so slightly in harmony with the Chant of Light.
With every step he took toward the enchanter, a palpable wave of emotion washed over him, her pleas stirring his longing for a deep connection with the Maker. He closed his eyes and allowed the sounds of the Chant to envelop him. The words cascaded into his consciousness, a melodic current carrying with it a profound sense of calm and surrender.
As the moments passed, his breathing deepened and a comforting warmth enveloped his chest, as if he were being embraced by the ethereal presence of Andraste herself.
Eventually, the intensity of the feeling began to subside, leaving him in a state of serene stillness. Cullen opened his eyes, imbued with newfound strength. His gaze lingered upon Miriam, lost in her reverie, and a surge of gratitude welled within him for the unintended gift she had bestowed upon him.
Quietly, he stepped away, leaving the sanctum behind. As he walked into the War Room, he carried with him the lingering echoes of her prayers.
The chamber was bathed in the sun's warm rays, casting long shadows across the polished oak table where the Commander stood absorbed in his task. Maps, reports, and a weathered leather ledger, filled with meticulously recorded weapon inventories, surrounded him. For hours he devotedly traced the lines representing their supply routes, tirelessly striving to ensure an uninterrupted flow of weapons and resources to the Inquisition's nascent army. As the demand for their forces grew, new passages needed to be established. That's why he scrutinized every potential candidate, meticulously pointing out the possible dangers that lurked within. Bandit-infested areas and treacherous terrain were mapped out, along with the exact number of guards to be stationed at critical points along the newly charted paths.
While the Commander's concentration remained fixated on the maps before him, a graceful figure silently entered the War Room. The Spymaster of the Inquisition approached with purpose, her steps light and unhurried. "Commander, I hope the day finds you well."
Startled by her sudden appearance, the man's gaze swiftly shifted from the maps to meet the Left Hand's arresting gaze. How had she managed to infiltrate the room without so much as a whisper? "Leliana," he addressed her "What brings you here?"
"I need updated maps depicting the northern region of the Frostback Mountains," she revealed. "Having received reports of potential threats in that particular area, I find it imperative to ensure that my scouts are equipped with precise and current information."
Without uttering a word, the Commander gestured towards a nearby stack of parchments, indicating that her request would be swiftly fulfilled. As she gracefully moved towards the waiting maps, he thought that it will be an opportune moment to ask for her help. Gathering his resolve, he cautiously yet resolutely ventured forth. "I wanted to discuss something with you," he began, his voice carrying the weight of both concern and determination. "Could you secure Chantry records pertaining to Templars who have attempted to abstain from lyrium consumption? I am also interested in any studies on the withdrawal symptoms they may experience."
Rather than posing the expected questions, the woman surprised him with a simple yet assuring response carrying an air of quiet confidence. "Of course, consider it done."
"Thank you," he said, feeling a sense of gratitude for Leliana's prompt willingness to assist him without prying further. Though their perspectives often diverged, and they found themselves on opposing sides of heated debates, there was no denying the Spymaster's unparalleled competence. Her reputation as a master of intrigue and espionage preceded her, and he knew that if anyone possessed the skills to uncover the necessary information, it was her.
The corners of her lips curled ever so slightly, a subtle hint of satisfaction gracing her features, "Helping hand gets sway over the fate."
With those last words, she departed the War Room, leaving Cullen slightly perplexed by her response. A sense of uncertainty settled within him, for her words hinted at a hidden agenda. He shook his head, perhaps it was best not to dwell too deeply on the enigma that was Leliana. After all, her unwavering dedication to the cause had proven invaluable time and time again. It was her competence and her skill that mattered most at this moment. With renewed focus, he turned his attention back to the maps that lay sprawled across the table.
As twilight draped its dusky cloak over the horizon, Cullen's weary body reminded him of its needs. Hunger gnawed at his stomach as he had not taken a single bite of food throughout the entire day. It was a new sensation, one he would need to grow accustomed to. In the days when lyrium coursed through his veins, such mundane concerns as nourishment had been foreign to him, replaced by an unyielding surge of energy that sustained him without fail. However, with his attempted liberation from the addictive substance, his body demanded sustenance.
Sighing heavily, Cullen rubbed his reddened eyes, strained from hours of scrutinizing maps and poring over reports. It was clear that he needed to address his own needs if he was to have the strength to carry out his duties. Resolving to venture to the nearby tavern, he stepped out of the War Room.
Just as he left the Chantry behind, a sudden clamor interrupted the tranquility of the evening. Intrigued by the disturbance, the Commander's determined gait quickened, his purposeful strides cutting through the still air. With each step, his anticipation heightened, urging him toward the heart of the commotion.
When he arrived at the scene, his eyes took in a gathering of recruits, their collective attention fixated upon a heated dispute unfolding before them. A Templar, his countenance twisted with contempt, hurled accusations at a mage, "It is your blighted kind that brought about the Breach and the death of the Divine!" he spat, his voice laced with bitter resentment.
The enchanter, refusing to yield under the weight of the Knight's accusations, met his opponent's words with unyielding defiance. "Has the lyrium eroded your brain?" he retorted in an exasperated voice. "If your claims held any truth, why would Andraste have chosen a mage to be her Herald?"
A sneer curled the Templar's lips. "Andraste chose her because she is a submissive sort. She knows her place, a far cry from you lot."
Cullen's blood boiled at the Knight's words. "Enough!" he thundered, his authority resonating in every syllable. "Such disputes serve no purpose in our mission." His eyes, ablaze with fury, bore into the Templar, "This is the Inquisition, you are talking to your comrade, not your charge. Address your words with due respect, soldier!" he demanded. "There should be unity in our ranks. The division is a weakness we cannot afford."
The Knight, his bravado momentarily diminished, lowered his gaze in reluctant submission.
Cullen's attention then shifted to the mage, his voice softened but carrying an undeniable intensity. "And you, refrain from engaging in provocations that will only serve to escalate the conflict. Your duty is to maintain order and discipline, not fuel discord. Should you experience any more misconduct within our ranks, report it to Knight-Captain Rylen."
The enchanter nodded, his expression slightly tempered. "Yes, Commander."
With a sweep of his gaze, Cullen addressed the assembled onlookers. "There is nothing more to see here. Dismissed! " The crowd, reluctantly acquiescing to his command, began to disperse, the tendrils of animosity and discord gradually dissipating.
His brow furrowed as he stood amidst the lingering echoes of the confrontation. For so long, he had been steadfast in his conviction that mages should be always closely monitored, their powers tempered by the watchful guidance of the Templar Order. It had been a doctrine ingrained within him, a truth he had clung to in the face of the chaos and destruction that magic had often wrought.
Now, however, doubt had crept into the depths of his soul, the events he had witnessed chipping away at the certainty he once held. He found himself in uncharted territory, where the boundaries of right and wrong had become blurred and muddled.
He took a deep breath, drawing in the cool evening air, and resumed his walk towards the beckoning glow of the tavern.
The establishment door was swung open, releasing a lively chorus of laughter and mirth into the night. Cullen stepped across the threshold, allowing the spirit of the place to wash over him. The scent of hearty meals and the clinking of tankards filled the air, mingling with the sounds of animated conversations and the melodic strains of a bard's song.
His weary eyes surveyed the room, taking in the diverse faces that populated the space. Soldiers, scouts, and pilgrims huddled together, sharing tales of their trials and triumphs. The Commander found a quiet corner, away from the bustling crowd, and settled into a sturdy wooden chair. Summoning a serving wench with a nod, he ordered a simple meal and a mug of bark tisane.
In the cheerful atmosphere of the tavern, amidst the rhythmic pulse of life, he waited patiently for his sustenance, all too aware that the approaching night would likely unleash another torrent of nightmares. At that moment, a recollection emerged—a memory of the profound warmth that coursed through him during the morning prayer shared with Miriam. And so he allowed himself to be enveloped in a sense of serenity and to be freed, if only for a little while, from the shackles of his burdens.